The Legend Of The Rhinestone Cowboy

I know in multiple instances on this blog I have told tales that included a legendary figure known as The Rhinestone Cowboy. This is a man who has had an illustrious career in higher education thus far, and is someone who Bear Grylls would ultimately tip his cap to. We have had our golden ages together as college recruiters, however things have changed considerably over the years since the distinguished Rhinestone Cowboy became my friend.

Because when I first met the guy, he sure was a prick.

For full effect, download “Coyotes”, by Don Edward, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. You can even howl along with the man on the chorus if you want, I won’t judge.

Kids, when I first rubbed shoulders with the legend from Texas, we shared a Small Group Communication class taught by a decrepit creature who once bawled his eyes out while watching an episode of “The Office”. The ancient teabag known as Wayne Shamo.

For the record, I may or may not have donned a Mohawk for a good five weeks that semester, mainly because I thought the shock value alone would impress women around campus to date me. However, due to the fact that it’s been nearly seven years since Shamo’s class, and that I am still as single as Stinson, I must say that hairstyle didn’t do wonders for me like I imagined.

At the time of Shamo’s excuse of higher education, the Cowboy and I sat a little over 15 feet from one another. We never talked, never joked, never recounted the weekend’s college football scores. The only thing I knew about the Rhinestone Cowboy was that he had a stare of death. Like a fat woman on a Jenny Craig diet burning a hole through the skin of the waiter that just took away her dessert menu. He had a look that would make Simon Cowell wet his pants. And I had to see it every single day.  

For a long period of my young college career, I was actually scared of making eye contact with him, fearing that his maleficent staredown would make me want to force myself into a seizure into oncoming freeway traffic. It was that intimidating.  Here he was, a stereotypical jock clothed in Texas Longhorn gear from the hat on his head, to his embroidered thong underneath, staring a Mohawk wearing seizure-boy down like I was the scum of the earth.

Yeah, our relationship got off to a rocky start.

Cue intramural sports at Dixie State College over the next few semesters, where I was then forced to endure a series of beat downs by Team Texas, which was a group of typecast douchebags that used to recruit former college athletes to play with them, just so they could win a free shirt that displayed the word “Champions”.  Every touchdown they would score, every three-pointer they would make, every win they would tally, all of their athletic triumphs they would rub in the faces of the minions they stomped over. And you know who was their captain? The notorious Rhinestone Cowboy himself.

For a long period of my life I hated this creature that had good looks, rippling pecs, athletic talent, Hell, for all I know he probably pissed greatness for breakfast. On the surface I labeled him as a pompous fool that had no social skills whatsoever and was more vain than the entire Kardashian family combined.

But then I had an actual conversation with the man, and our lives have changed ever since.

Guys, have I ever told you about the real Rhinestone Cowboy? A man who has the ability to stroll into the hood of Las Vegas and make gangsta thugs fall in L-word with getting a college education. A man that can track, shoot, gut, and mount a buck all without breaking a sweat. A man who once finished an Ironman triathlon at a semi-pro pace. A man who loves his family more than he loves his own life, and dedicates every minute to being the best husband and father around? Have I told you about this colossal character who is the epitome of awesome?

Yeah, that’s the real Rhinestone Cowboy, and I will always thank the man upstairs for giving me the privilege of calling him my friend.

My Date With A Serial Killer

“Is there any way we could change it to some place that I know? What if this restaurant you’re talking about doesn’t exist? And how do I know you’re not just going to kill me?”

Were the first words my blind date texted me on Friday night.  

For full effect, download “Midnight Rambler” by The Rolling Stones, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Before I begin, I would like to issue a formal apology on the delay of this post. For some reason my hometown of St. George decided to go into complete shut down mode when the big man upstairs sent down a few snow flurries. You would think a city with over 100,000 people would know how to shovel a sidewalk and not feel they have reached the actual apocalypse. It is because of this geriatric catastrophe, and the 15-hour disruption in my travel schedule, that caused this interruption.

For the record, I would also like to say that although a week ago I went on an independent splurge talking about how I am not ready to be a Father, ranting about the torturous road of what raising a child must be like, a key word to remember is, “yet”. Because in all reality, one day I’m actually going to be a real Father raising a handful of kids, and telling them the 9-season long story of How I Met Their Mother.

And that is what this blog is about. Telling my kids the stories of bad dates I had when women who aren’t their Mother mistook me for being a serial killer.

It is somewhat of a kick in the manhood to have an elementary school teacher put me in the same category as Ted Bundy. Are we all engineered to be defensive about someone who asks for our number and drives a few hours to take us to dinner? Maybe all women do in fact think that men are the devil. For all I know, this girl probably thought I was a Satan worshipper as she nervously walked in to Zupa’s holding pepper spray and a switchblade behind her back.

“Hi, I’m …” she said with a plastic smile on her face.

It was at this point when I realized that I was the one whose life might be at risk.

… was hands down one of the most entertaining girls I have ever taken out. And when I say entertaining, I don’t mean my heart was captured with a rush of emotions entranced by her beauty. I mean entertaining like a six-year old with ADD that you keep feeding spoonfuls of paint, while you sit back with a bag of popcorn and laugh at the show they put on.

I could recount to you the entire one-hour, nine-minute meal we shared, but I think her top three quotes of the night could sum everything up.

… “I think you just have to draw the line at AIDS.”

… “Don’t tell anyone this, but when I was a freshman at the Y, in multiple instances I went past the chastity line that they have in apartments. I even went back into a boy’s bedroom once!”

… “My girlfriend made the statement that everyone is different. They all have a different lid. There are the circle lids, the square lids, the triangle lids, and the star lids. And that’s what he is. You have to agree that a guy who dresses up as a ninja for fun is a star lid kind of guy.”

I must say that last quote sums up our date. Everyone is different.  

As I walked her to her car in normal serial killer fashion, I knew there would not be a second date between the two of us. She was funny, she was sweet, she was the best show that a $15 dinner at Zupa’s could buy. But the bottom line is that I am not the kind of man she is looking to spend the rest of her life with. In her own lunatic words, I’m just not the lid that will fit her jar.

And so I’ll keep looking. I’ll keep testing the waters. I’ll keep asking complete strangers out. I’ll keep agreeing to go on blind dates with elementary school Zoobies who accuse me of being a man who murders innocent people as a hobby.

Because after all, every serial killer needs a lover, don’t they?

To Jeremiah Rawson!

If I were sitting with Will Ferrell, John Goodman, and Alec Baldwin, doing an SNL skit about drunk people celebrating the Birthday of one of the most legendary men of all time, this is what our conversation would sound like. (By the way, Google “Bill Brasky” and you’ll know the direction I’m heading with this.)

Me: “Have I ever told you about the great, Jeremiah Rawson?”

JG: “Yeah, I know Rawson. Isn’t he the one who once caught a cobra with his bare hands, and used it as a lure to catch great white sharks in the Pacific Ocean?”

AB: “That’s the guy. Rawson’s a helluva man, ain’t he? In fact, one time I saw him eat 37 tacos in one sitting. After that, he ran a 5K backwards, and naked.”

WF: “Did I ever tell you about the time Rawson once harpooned the Sea Shepherd with the spine of a blue whale, just to spite them?”

Me: “Last I checked, Rawson grates cheese on his abs, and can iron his pants on his pecs.”

AB: “Did you know that he doesn’t check in with Facebook? Instead, Facebook checks in with him!”

JG: “I’ve heard that when he dies, they’re going to use his blood to replace fossil fuels, and his ribs as the new gates to Heaven.”

WF: (Raising a glass) “To Jeremiah Rawson!”

All: “JEREMIAH RAWSON!!!”

AB: “Did I ever tell ya about the time Rawson shook my hand after beating me in a game of H-O-R-S-E? When I went home that night, I listed it on my resume as one of my lifetime achievements.”

WF: “Animal Planet has an entire week dedicated solely to his beard. In fact, I heard the last time he shaved he had to put Band-Aids on the end of his razor.”

Me: “I once saw him win a game of Tic Tac Toe, with only two moves.”

JG: “17. That’s the number of women Rawson will have kissed by the time I finish this sentence.”

WF: “You remember back when Rawson found a full-grown Grizzly Bear in the wilderness and taught him how to play fetch with a bowling ball?”

Me: “When Rawson was in the fifth grade he once won a spelling bee.  By counting to five.”

JG: “Last I checked, back in the 2008 Presidential Election, both McCain, and Obama voted for him to win.”

AB: (Raising a glass) “To Jeremiah Rawson!”

All: “JEREMIAH RAWSON!!!”

Me: “Y’know, Rawson sure is a helluva guy. In fact, I bet if you were to look on the bottom of the country of China, it would say ‘Made by him’.”

JG: “I remember when he once used the wing of a 747 jetliner as a snowboard.”

AB: “I heard that every year the Pope drives out to his house in Logan and confesses his sins to him.”

WF: “If blind people were to use Rawson’s nipples as Braille, it would read “Where’s the Beef?”

JG: “Rawson once lost his front tooth when he was six. When he woke up, the tooth fairy had left him her phone number.”

Me: “On my iPhone when Siri doesn’t know something, she asks Rawson.”

WF: “I heard that his bottled sweat was the fourth-best selling cologne in all of North America.”

AB: “Did you know that a camouflage beanie he only used to wipe his face once is now on display at the Smithsonian?”

JG: “Rawson never has to lick stamps. Instead, he just stares at them until they wet themselves in fear.”

Me: (Raising my glass) “To Jeremiah Rawson. One of the only men who could beat up Chuck Norris without blinking, and one of the craziest friends I’ll ever meet.”

All: “TO JEREMIAH RAWSON!!!”  

I'm Not Baby Hungry

Lunatic Female Relative Born During The Great Depression: “Aww…Look at you holding your niece like that. I think you’re getting all baby hungry.”

Me: “You’re saying I want to eat newly born infants? What kind of a freak do you think I am?”

Her: “No, I just meant you look so cute holding that baby. I think you’re ready to be a Dad.”

Mental Me: “Ready to be a Dad? Lady, I’m not even ready for a serious relationship, let alone ready to create my own offspring. Shut your senile yapper and go back to reminiscing about the good ol’ days when you would shine Pappy’s shoes for a nickel.”

For full effect, download “Wonderboy” by The Kinks, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

At this point in my life, I do not want to be a Father. Just yet, anyway. There, I said it. My secret’s out in the open, the cat is out of the bag. Everyone may now inhale in a rather dramatic fashion to display total shock and disbelief.

Seriously people, give me one solid reason why the title of “Dad” is such an enviable rank to hold. Kids are nothing but problems. From the second they pop out of the fleshy canyon of their Mothers, to the moment they’re handed a college diploma, and every single sleepless night in between, kids are one giant concoction of grief, frustration, agony, and boogers.

When I think of kids, I think of stinky diapers, spilled formula, bad third-grade report cards, burping sessions, tantrums, Dora the Explorer, detention, midnight crying, the disappearance of naps, cough syrup, spilled paint, broken souvenirs, wasted money, flu shots, car seats, ugly vegetables, and Sesame Street all rolled into a giant mess. Did I miss anything there, or is that pretty much the gist of what raising a child is like?

You may say I’m being ungrateful here, but here’s the thing. I know why I don’t want kids simply from my childhood alone. Who kicked in the tile wall of a shower because he was angry with his sisters for turning the lights off? This guy. Who was once tied to a chair with duct tape and jump ropes for his 6^th grade teacher’s Birthday because he was overly annoying? This guy. Who used to sneak into the kitchen and steal shots of maple syrup and raspberry jelly? This guy.

Who doesn’t want to deal with himself all over again in multiple scenarios until he finally decides to croak? This guy.

This is the part where you want me to go all Lifetime on you and say some sappy story about how after 35 minutes of fussing, I finally got my cute as candy niece Raleigh to fall asleep in my arms and drool all over my jacket, meanwhile Thanksgiving festivities paraded on in the basement, thus altering my kid-hating perspective once and for all and finally pushing my passion to become a Father.  

Ha! You wish! Instead I’m going to go all Robin Scherbatsky on you and say forget that! I’ll hand that baby girl right back to her Mother and spend my money on fancy things like concert tickets and upgrades to my snowboard. 

Call me selfish, but I’m not baby hungry at all.

Happy Thanksgiving, Pilgrims!

Here we sit on the eve of the most obese holiday ever created, baking pies, stuffing turkeys, and seeing how much whipped cream we can fit in our mouths from the aerosol can on the counter. Boy, life is grand, I’ll tell you what.

For full effect, download “Kind and Generous” by Natalie Merchant, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

During this festival of fatness there are more than likely a grouping of traditions that all of our families participate in. Aside from the potential murdering of innocent grandmothers during black Friday, my family has one of the most corny, most overworked traditions imaginable: We all sit around the table with Jell-O in our bellies and tears in our eyes, and tell one another what we’re thankful for.

I know. Gag my mature way of thinking with a spoon.

The thing that gets me about this tradition is that we’re all saying the same things in an overly dramatic cycle. “…thankful for my family, thankful for my friends, thankful for this food that has been placed before us.” Those are all things every member of my family already knows we’re thankful for. So you know what? I’m going rogue this year and using this blog to tell you what I’m REALLY thankful for.

I’m thankful for a DVR that allows me to tape a six-hour broadcast of Modern Family to watch at a later date while I’m stuck at home in my underwear.

I’m thankful for No-Shave November being created and exploding as a viral way of hygiene just so I can have everything above my neckline impersonate a homeless man.

I’m thankful for Wal-Mart, which allows my personal self-esteem to grow while watching the tomfoolery of other people around me.

I’m thankful for Craigslist being used as an exploitation of people selling really nice things at really dirtcheap prices. Because of you, I have found my furniture, my barstools, and my road bike.

I’m thankful for my height, which allows women who are 5’10”, not be forced to write off their entire high heel collection if by some chance we start dating.

I’m thankful for places such as Gold’s Gym, which allows me to fine-tune my physical character as a modern day Greek God, but at the same time allows me laugh at stick figures yelling in agony just so all the women in spandex will notice them.

I’m thankful for Asphalt Pie at Winger’s.

I’m thankful that Chuck Palahniuk, Rick Reilly, Joseph Gordon-Leavitt, and the Cohen Brothers have been birthed, only to help shape the kind of writer I want to become.

I’m thankful for my Mom’s pomegranate-pineapple raspberry Jell-O she makes every year, that could easily win a dessert contest at any Relief Society bake-off in Utah.

Don’t tell anyone about this, but as of last Friday night, I’m secretly thankful for Pinterest.

I’m thankful for past roommates who taught me how to cook, which I now use as one of my main strategies in wooing the heart of a woman.

I’m thankful for having a sports team to cheer for that doesn’t suck every single year. How could I have a motivation for life if I were only a Cubs fan?

I’m thankful that I’ve never taken a duck-faced selfie.

I’m thankful that I don’t have an Instagram account, because if I did, all I would see tomorrow are filtered pictures showcasing how unhealthy everyone is eating.

I’m thankful that the Twilight series has officially been killed off.  

I’m thankful for my ability to tell a story in less than 700 words and still keep an audience entertained whether in person, or on paper.

And most of all, I’m thankful that you keep clicking on my links every three days as a follower, giving me the motivation to keep documenting my life through social media.

In the words of John Wayne, “Happy Thanksgiving, Pilgrims.”

Taking People In Doses

I have been sitting in my underwear for seven straight hours, doing nothing but watch a steady stream of college football. And I couldn’t be happier with my life.

For full effect, download “Hysteria” by Muse and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Seriously people, since 9:30 this morning I have been laying on my couch, with a beard on my face and Doritos in my hair, binging on bowls of Marshmallow Mateys every 40 minutes, and doing nothing but watch guys in their mid-twenties beat each other up in helmets. Dang, I love Saturdays in the fall.  For the majority of the day I have been alone. By myself. And I love it. You know why?

Because sometimes I can only handle people in doses. 

I’m sure you all know what I mean. We all have people we can only take so much of. People who are great the first few moments we see them, but after three minutes their annoying traits make us want to pull out their fingernails with a pair of pliers.

Ok, that may have been a bit graphic, I apologize. But you know what I mean.

Heck, to you I may be one of those annoying people. Perhaps I fall in the category of someone you can only stand for a few quick lines of conversation before you fake a phone call or use some other tactic to get rid of me. I know you can only put up with so many of my sarcastic rants on dating. However, along with me there are others that can go ahead and join the club of people we just can’t stand.

Take for instance the John Doe I deal with once every eight months. This is a guy who at first glance feels like a homegrown hero whom I’ve shared many childhood memories with. But after thirty seconds of listening to his sermons about how successful his first few semesters of law school have been, and how amazingly beautiful his children are, and every single other detail of his life he tries to “one-up” me with, all of this helps me realize how worthless our friendship actually is.

Or what about the ginger-haired pigeon who questions me once a week via Facebook about my love life, my dating prospects, the fact that I’m still single and why I haven’t followed her example and found a partner as loving, and adoring, and admirable as the husband she talks crap on while doing yoga with her sister-in-law. Yes, I can only stomach your sage advice on relationships for so long, so please shut your yapper.

These two prospects are just a few of the people who I have to handle in doses. There are plenty of other creatures whose presence I can only stand to be in for a few brief moments of my life: the RedSox Bandwagon Jumper, the Thick-Eyebrow Drama Queen, the Lonely Tiger, the Play-by-Play Narcissist, the Holier-Than-Peter construction manager, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I can only tolerate them for a brief amount of time. And thank the good Lord upstairs they all live over 300 miles away from me.  

In a few short days we will all celebrate that one holiday Pilgrims and Indians created with a sacrificial turkey. Family and friends will come together and loosen their belt buckles for the outpouring of sweet potato casserole and lime Jell-O salad. We will be exposed to people we can only deal with in doses. Annoying Uncles, geriatric Great-Grandmothers and hypocritical cousins all rolled into the same household. Some of them we can stomach for longer periods of time. And this Thursday we’ll all get together and take shots of one another.

Alcohol may or may not be included.

Some of the best relationships we have are with the people who we can handle for extended amounts of time. People who when we’re with them, we’re not counting down the seconds off our watches in agony. People who we can tell our deepest, darkest secrets to, and they still L-word us in spite of our flaws. Maybe that’s what we are all looking for to make our life just a little bit better. 

Someone who we don’t measure in doses.